Despite many adults’ ideas to the contrary, Sara knew that 3rd grade class president was an honor and—most importantly—a Real Job, which she had wanted since Kindergarten. Given, this was not a Real Job that would pay her enough to go to Disney World (or anywhere, for that matter, since it didn’t pay at all), but the prestige was all that really mattered.

Additionally, this Real Job meant Real Responsibility, and Sara wasn’t messing around with the fine art of statecraft. Already, she had learned the first rule of every politician: Make pretty promises, and then promptly forget about them.

“And finally!” she announced triumphantly. “I promithe to give everyone ithe cream at lunchtime and make the Tooth Fairy pay uth more when we lothe teeth if you vote for me!”

The third grade class screamed. The golden rule of statecraft had come through yet again: Sara was about to be president.

It is no secret that, despite his kindly nature and general gregariousness, my great-uncle lacks statecraft. He doesn’t mean to insult people. It just sort of happens. And then nobody wants to talk about it and try to mend matters afterward. They all just sit and think about it and seethe.

I’ve often wondered lately whether Great-Uncle Marty’s suspicious absences from the last several large family gatherings I’ve attended are attributable to a lack of invitation from whoever happens to be hosting or to a lack of inclination to attend on his part. Half the time I’m convinced he must not want to come, since I hardly think not being invited would stop him if he really wanted to attend. The rest of the time I think about how much he loves his family and decide my various relatives must be hurting his feelings so much by excluding him that he’s staying away. Again, it’s not like I can ask. We don’t talk about these things. Not in this dysfunctional family.

I look forward to the day when I’m chosen to host a family gathering. Then I’ll make sure to invite Great-Uncle Marty and can determine once and for all why he’s stopped showing his face among his relations. There’s only one problem.

The family matriarchs all have a rule that a young lady must be married before she can be a hostess. And… well… did I mention that I’ve inherited certain of Great-Uncle Marty’s traits? Poor, old, bachelor Great-Uncle Marty’s traits…